


Without You

by Three_Oaks



Series: Oaksy's Prompt Game [12]
Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Character Death, Funerals, Grieving, Hurt No Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:49:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23392018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Three_Oaks/pseuds/Three_Oaks
Summary: Benji attends Ethan's funeral.Day 11:Funerals
Relationships: Benji Dunn/Ethan Hunt
Series: Oaksy's Prompt Game [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1676299
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	Without You

The ceremony was over, and Benji stood alone facing the grave. The casket was dirty, covered by the fistful of earth tradition compelled mourners to throw. It felt wrong. Benji had wanted to stop them.

Ethan was in there, they couldn't just cover him in dirt. He was a man that belonged the sun. Benji had long been certain that he was a few degrees hotter than the common human; he'd teased him about it as they lounged in bed, sneaking his cold hands under Ethan's shirt, on his warm chest. He'd protested, more as a matter of form than anything else, and then take Benji's hand into his own until they were warm, smiling at him all the while. When he pictured it, he always imagined the sun shining through the blinds they had meant to fix for ages but hadn't gotten around to; in the morning, the light hit Ethan's side of the bed, making his black hair look brown, or even golden in places. He'd basked in that light, closing his eyes as he'd enjoyed the feeling of the sun on his skin. 

But now Ethan rested in that casket. He didn't care if there was 6 feet of dirt between him and sunlight, or if that his hands were now cold. He was dead.

Benji watched as they filled the grave. The process wasn't very interesting, although the motion of it was hypnotic: shovel up, shovel down, more earth, thrown on the coffin until it was covered. That was it, he thought. Would Ethan have been able to escape that, if he were still alive? 

The wind was loud in the trees, their shivering leaves a startling green against the deep blue sky. As much as he'd wished to, the weather hadn't turned. It was a beautiful day. He started running his hand along the edge of his mantle after a while. How long had it been already? Taking the reception into account, he should still be able to make it home before the evening rush if they hurried with it. There was only about a foot left.

God, what was he doing? This was Ethan's grave, his funerals, and there he was, thinking about traffic. He dug his nails into his palms so hard that it would probably leave black, crescent-shaped bruises. Not that it mattered; they would heal, because he was alive. Could he not even do that for Ethan, mourn as he was buried? 

***

The ceremony had been a chore. Had he not known for whom the funerals were held, Benji was sure he'd never been able to guess. He could see how the pastor struggled to create a tentative image of the man Ethan had been based on the few childhood stories and youth anecdotes he'd no doubt been provided. Sensibly, he'd picked the solution least likely to offend and kept his sermon to the most inoffensively generic. However, this made for the most boring, impersonal platitudes he'd been forced to listen to since the CIA's director retirement party. A gangly teenager in a creased black shirt sitting a in front of him had been texting, while two older women had spent their time making hushed comments. He hoped that they were pointing out the distractingly ugly hats two middle-aged blonde in the front row had deemed acceptable to wear. Those deserved all the scorn they got. He could hardly blame the audience for their inattention, however, given the utter tediousness of the whole process and the fact that none of them knew Ethan. 

Benji didn't know who any of them were, either; Ethan had barely mentioned a few names, and never showed him any pictures of his relatives except his parents. They hadn't been a close family, only seeing each other at the few funerals and wedding Ethan had been able to attend. Even these occasions had dwindled, once his mother had died; and after Julia's presumed death, Benji doubted he'd attended any. 

***

He stood alone in the corner of the reception room, a glass of something in his hand. Wine, probably. He hadn't looked. The crowd had dwindled, clustered in small groups chatting, quietly until one of them forgot why they were there and let out a laugh, only to be met with mild looks reproach. From what he could hear, they were catching up on family gossip, exchanging boring scandals and hushed rumors, waiting for it to be acceptable to go home. No one had approached him yet. He was alone, with his love, with his grief.

It was what he'd wanted. Luther had organized a ceremony, assembling colleagues and acquaintances, drawing anyone curious to find out what had finally killed the great Ethan Hunt. They never mingled with the family, partly because agents tended either not to have much of one, or to wish that they hadn't. It was easier; no lying, no bad cover-up talk of a car accident, copious quantities of alcohol. They'd tell stories about Ethan, remember all the good he had done, all the persons he had saved, the insane stunts he's pulled, the desperate situations he'd gotten out of, a grin on his face, too brave to ever give up. It would be Ethan, his life. 

Benji couldn't bear it.

There, he could still imagine that the corpse in the coffin was a stranger. That he'd go home that night and find Ethan, warm and happy and alive. He didn't have to hide how empty he felt, answer stranger's questions, try to avoid Luther and Brandt. He didn't have to pretend he hadn't lost the man he loved.

They had been planning to tell the team in a few weeks. Just waiting for things to settle down, to get used to living with each other. Enjoying the privacy, the idea of having a secret, like giddy students with their first love. And they had time, didn't they?

He hadn't been able to tell anyone, since then. 

He left the reception before he could break down. Once in his car, he wept, uncontrollably, sobs wrecking his chest and tears rolling down his face. He wept until he couldn't breathe, until the sun had fallen and he was alone in the parking lot. He wept until the pain receded, leaving him empty. It was even worse.

Hands shaking, he reached for his phone.

"Luther? I need... I need to talk to you."

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry


End file.
